


The Audacity of Fate

by hopelessbookgeek



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Cannibalism, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack, GTA AU, M/M, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-03-21 14:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13742559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopelessbookgeek/pseuds/hopelessbookgeek
Summary: "How do you kill the gods? You don't. You sit back and let the gods kill each other." It's been five years since the Fake AH Crew fractured apart, and some of them want nothing more than to forget that city of ash and blood. But Los Santos doesn't give up its best that easily, and one by one they realize they can't stay away forever, so when you take a bad plan and add good luck...





	1. Burns of Molten Gold

As far as the law was concerned, Michael Vincent Jones had never been in trouble a day in his life.

Certainly no one who knew him now would think that he had the capacity or inclination to get his record wiped, and the people who did know were either dead or dead to him. He’d built a good life here: steady work, beautiful wife, one sweet little girl and one more on the way. The man who sat in the green summer grass of his backyard playing with his daughter was not the man who fled a city that tasted of blood, smelled of gunpowder, and felt like midnight.

But no plan is perfect and no luck holds forever, which would explain why Los Santos’s Golden Boy was standing at his gate.

“You stay here, baby,” he said to his daughter, hauled himself to his feet and moved to stand eye-to-eye with Gavin Free.

“Leave or I’ll call the cops,” he said in a low voice, the one reserved for bed or battle. Even now, deep down, he didn’t know which this was; there’d always been a lot of overlap and fury was foreplay.

“You won’t,” said Gavin, and held up a Manila folder, the one Michael had destroyed five years ago.

“I burned that.”

“You burned one of them. Geoff isn’t stupid enough to only have one copy of his blackmail material.” Oh, that was Geoff all over, only clever when it came to fucking over his had-been friends. Gavin craned his head to look around Michael to where, through the kitchen window, they could just see Lindsay watering the herbs on the sill.

“Not sure if I should be flattered or offended,” said Gavin mildly, but when he inclined his head the gold flakes pressed to the corners of his eyes flashed, like a warning. “That you’re committing adultery with a woman so pretty.”

“Don’t,” Michael said in a growl, and his fingers itched to slap those stupid gold rimmed aviators right off his pretty head. “She’s my wife.”

“That’s a neat trick, since you and I never got divorced. Does she know she’s a bigamist or did you apply for a dispensation from–”

Michael’s hand shot out and grabbed his jaw like he was disciplining a dog. “Say it again,” he said. “You and I are  _ done _ . I’m not going to fuck you. I’m not going to kill for you, and I’m sure as fuck not going to die for you.”

Gavin, in the time Before, glittered like he was his own individual constellation. They had never had much time for affection but on their wedding night, when Gavin was still breathless beneath him, Michael had leaned in to press a kiss to the base of his throat. “My North Star,” he’d said. “You always gotta lead me home.”

And all those individual elements were still there– the gold that shone from his glasses, his nails, the leaf carefully plastered to the corners of his eyes like eyeshadow. He was still just shy of clean-shaven, his hair still wind-tousled, and he still wore the Converse custom-painted with violets: the state flower of New Jersey.

But the difference was that Before, Michael would’ve loved to be the dark contrast to such beauty, where they could make their own eclipse. Now he had no time for something that was so…  _ much. _ After all, when Midas used his gift, he killed his children.

“If I found you,” said Gavin, wholly unconcerned that Michael could snap his neck without a second thought, “so will Geoff. You can protect your woman or your little bastard but you can’t do both.”

“You don’t think I know you, you son of a bitch? You’d never hurt a child. Empty threat.”

Gavin had green eyes, pretty eyes, long lashes, but Michael had never seen them look so much like molten steel before. “Not me,” he said. “But Ryan would.”

Michael dropped his jaw and took a step back out of habit. None of them had known Ryan very well– none of them had liked him– none of them had  _ trusted _ him. Michael didn’t know what he looked like under the mask but still sometimes woke up in the middle of the night sweating, thinking about black greasepaint rimming blue, blue eyes.

“You’re a real bastard,” he said, trying not to sound like his voice was wavering. “You’re gonna sic the Vagabond on my family?”

“He’s not a mad dog–”

_ “He eats people!” _

“We never confirmed that,” said Gavin, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“I’m sick of hurting people,” he said, like he hadn’t laughed every time he snapped a bone so hard it burst through skin. “I’m not going back to some burning city so that Geoff can be king of the ashes.”

“You’d be–”

_ “Well compensated,” _ he finished bitterly, the lie Jack used to spit at him like acid. “I have money. I have family. You make everyone around you worse and I’m not getting sucked back in,” said the man who had a running tally of deaths he caused inked on his thigh.

Gavin stared him down. He’d been a cowardly little bird once, all ruffled feathers and anxious chirps, but Geoff had clipped his wings and beaten the fear out of him. “I’ll sign the papers,” he said. “Come back for one job and I’ll sign the divorce papers.”

Michael was not stupid enough to agree to anything directly; dealing with Gavin was nearly demonic in how seriously he took a pact. “How did you find me? So I can be sure none of you ever fucking find me again.”

Gavin shrugged. “The last place anyone would expect to find the Jersey Devil is outside Boston, so I came straight here.”

Michael had to give that to him, Gavin knew him. “What’s in the folder?”

“Confidential.”

“Then you’re just as bad at blackmailing as you are at everything else.” Gavin just stared at him. They were almost the same height but the last time they were face-to-face, those pretty gold flakes were melting down his cheeks and Michael wore a twisted mask of ash and blood. He was used to hating what he saw in the mirror but that night was the first time he was  _ afraid _ of that reflection. He took $4000, the car that was his and the whiskey that wasn’t, and never looked back. “Rap sheet? Wanted poster? Obituaries?”

“Pictures,” said Gavin. “Of you, of the things you did. Insurance claim from the bike you wrapped around a tree going ninety in a residential. ER log of all the fake names you used when you had to get patched up. Our marriage certificate.”

Bastard, absolute bastard, because that’s what he knew Lindsay would hate him for– not that he hurt people or even that he killed people, because he had enough experience faking contrition that he could work around it. But that he lied, he lied about his name and age and job, he lied about his scars and his tattoos and his friends, he lied on his insurance claims and his marriage certificate and his doctor’s visits. He would tell her the Jersey Devil was a cryptid and that he didn’t know more than that. The only true thing he’d ever told her was that he loved her.

She wouldn’t care who he really was, or who he’d been. She would only care that he wasn’t what he’d told her for five years, and there was no way he could work around  _ that _ . 

“Where’s Ray buried?” he asked, to change the subject.

Gavin’s smile was a ghost. “Looks like you’re as bad at killing as you are at everything else,” he said. “He’s alive. Reclusive, I’ve heard, but respectable.”

Ray had been good when they found him, good heart and good aim, and they made him worse at the former to make him better at the latter. By the end he was setting up elaborate stakeouts for target practice; he once shot through four heads at once. They’d all sold their souls to rule the wasteland, sacrificed their humanity to be the best; Ray had fallen further than most. For someone who joined them thinking of it professionally, he turned feral remarkably quick, if not without a little breaking and remolding.

But the last time they met Michael had sunk a knife so deep into his gut that the tip chipped his spine. He didn’t even check the obits; didn’t think there was any possibility he’d pull through.

“Cockroach,” Michael muttered. That had been Jack’s bitter nickname for him, too. “So tell me, Golden Boy. What do I get if I come back?”

“Some money, some enjoyment, some infamy. The satisfaction of not getting your daughter’s fingers sent to you individually.”

Michael reached out and swiped at Gavin’s cheek like a lion felling an antelope, blunt nails scraping down to his chin and only narrowly missing his eye. Gavin hissed, touched the red tracks where Michael had scoured his foundation off and revealed the burns that molten gold had left. “Touch her,” he dared. “Touch a hair on her head and I’ll tear out your lungs, flip them inside out, and stuff them back down your throat. I will cut off pieces of your skin and sew them back in the wrong places until your whole body is a mosaic. I will gouge out your eyes and make you eat them. And I will leave you alive so you can spend every second in agony until your sweet daddy Geoff decides to take pity and mercy-kills you.”

“Come back,” spat Gavin, “or I’ll rewrite history. The Jersey Devil, Michael Jones, was our leader, did all the planning, ordered all the murders. I’ll put your name on every billboard in Los Santos until every cop in the country feels compelled to shoot you on sight. I’ll make sure your pretty woman knows what you are, that your children know, I’ll carve it myself in your  _ bloody headstone _ .”

And that was their way, that was their nasty, sickening way, so when Michael bared his teeth and turned away, Gavin had his answer.


	2. A Sharp-Boned Sacrifice

As far as the law was concerned, Geoffrey Lazer Ramsey did not exist.

His name was on no birth or death or marriage certificates. He had never paid a penny in taxes or collected an inch of benefits. He had no license, no ID, no social, and no identity. As far as the law was concerned, at least.

Because the man himself was real. They called him Kingpin if they called him anything at all, they called him Boss, they called him Sir. Every once in a while they called him  _ motherfucker _ , but not twice. Not after he carved KINGPIN into their foreheads so they’d remember every time they looked in a mirror.

So in that sense  _ Geoff Ramsey _ was as much artifice as the tattoos spiraling down his arms, but the man himself was real, because otherwise Ray would have opened the door to empty air instead of a deadbeat prematurely aged by exhaustion and alcohol.

He tried immediately to close the door but Geoff stuck his foot in as a stop. “Let me in,” Geoff said bluntly. Once he would have let the words drip honey or blood, but he had no need to manipulate Ray now, not when he held the physical advantage. Ray tried to close the door anyway, tried to slam it even, but his wheelchair was in the way and Geoff wrenched it open enough to enter.

“Thought you were dead,” said Ray, because  _ thought _ meant  _ hoped _ .

“Knew you weren’t.”

“I thought Ryan had you as his little lapdog,” and that wasn’t the wisest thing to say but without a gun he only had his words.

“Other way around. I keep him on a short leash.”

“Dogs bite.”

“And then they’re put down,” said Geoff, almost bored. “Need you again.”

“No.”

“Hear me out–”

“No,” he said, and panic threatened to choke him, he knew his pupils would be blown and that Geoff would notice, but five years later and he still woke up remembering the feeling of his own intestines in his hands. “What are you gonna do? Paralyze me again?”

In antiquity priests would use a sacred knife to cut out an animal’s entrails and offer them as either portent or sacrifice. Ray wondered which gods accepted his guts, his spinal fluid, three pints of his blood and most of his will to live. Did Geoff Ramsey accept libations?

“I don’t need to do anything,” said Geoff. “You already hate me, you’re already afraid of me. I can walk into your house whenever I want and I don’t need to do a damn thing when I do, because you’ll do anything I want to make me leave.”

Ray’s eyes sank closed. “Did you know where I was the whole time?”

“Sure.” He didn’t know if Geoff was lying and it almost didn’t matter. Whether it took five years or five minutes, Geoff Ramsey was standing in his living room.

“Who else did you find?”

“Oh, Ryan’s easy enough to rustle up when I need him. Gavin never left. He found Michael, he’s off picking him up now.”

There was a conspicuous absence in that list, probably the only member of the old Crew that Ray would be able to stand to face again. Acid-tongued and sharp-boned she might be, she gave Ray the little owl tattoo on his left forearm.

Geoff had given him a rose on his right, but he sheared the skin off layer by layer until there was no proof Geoff had ever touched him.

“Where’s Jack?” he said. Geoff said nothing so he opened his eyes, looked up at him. There was blue bruises under Geoff’s eyes and his stubble was more unkempt than usual; he’d always been successful before because he knew how to dance on the edge of self-destruction. From the look of things he’d spiraled right off that cliff.

“Where is Jack?” he asked again.

“Gone. Dead and buried.”

Ray’s heart seized in his chest and it made him jerk forward, which only shot pain down his spine. Most of the time he felt nothing at all below the waist but occasionally the gods saw fit to bless his frayed nerves with spikes of agony. “Far as I’m concerned, at least,” said Geoff, and that was worse. If Geoff had given up on protecting or desiring Jack, she was probably worse than dead.

But he was not going to beg for news of her, he was not going to care. “You’re asking me to fall back in with a Crew that left me for dead in a gutter.”

He wasn’t angry with Michael for stabbing him. Ryan looked hungry to do the same. But Geoff gave him the knife, the idea, and the inclination, and that Ray couldn’t forgive.

“Yes,” said Geoff. “I am.”

“No,” said Ray with more conviction than he felt. “I’m useless, I can’t–”

“That’s for me to decide. You could never be useless, Ray,” he said, and the honey in his voice was so thick it was nauseating. Michael’s knife had knocked a chip of bone off his spine and the scales off his eyes and Geoff’s sick-sweet did nothing to him anymore.

And in all his musings about gods he thought about exchanges, about offering up one thing on an altar to represent another. “Jeremy Dooley,” he said, and nearly choked on it.

“Who?”

“He’s part of the underground. Brawler. Plays the muscle to Matt Bragg’s hacker.”

Geoff nodded slowly. “And I’m supposed to restructure my entire Crew to suit a brawler instead of a sniper.”

“You did it before. I know we aren’t the first ones you’ve put in the ground.”

He didn’t bother to deny it. “You know what I’ll do to him if I don’t like him.”

“Yes,” said Ray, picking at a hangnail until it bled. “I know.”

“And you know that if I don’t like him and I have to get rid of him, I’ll come right back for you. You can keep throwing logs on the fire or I’ll burn you myself.”

“I know.”

Geoff reached out and dragged his fingers down Ray’s cheek, and he trembled. “You were always my favorite.”

He closed the door securely behind him when he left and only then did tears well in Ray’s eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I know that too.”


	3. A Cold-Blood October

As far as the law was concerned, Jack Shannon Pattillo had been dead for four years.

There was no headstone, no funeral, no mourners. No one questioned her absence. No one missed her. The only man alive who would miss her was keeping her safe from the man who would rather see her dead than without him. He had a bullet with her name on it. She still wore his ring.

Everything important that ever happened to Jack happened in October.

October 16th, 2007, she met Geoff Ramsey in a bar. He bought her hard cider,  _ celebrating the season _ he called it, told her all about how much he loved the harvest. She would only realize later that in all the talk of  _ the harvest _ he never once spoke of apples or pumpkins or wheat, and by then she knew enough to be afraid to ask what he  _ was _ speaking of.

At least she thought it was the 16th. He told her it was the 16th, she’d been so sure for so long that it was Friday the 12th but he always snapped when she pushed the point. “You were the one who was fucked up on a Tuesday,” he said. “So I think I’d remember the date correctly.”

That was before he started calling her stupid, though. Back then he still called her dreamy, ditzy, a girl who knew how to have fun.

October 5th, 2008, Geoff Ramsey told her he loved her, muttered it in her ear with his chest pressed to her naked back. When they bent like that, the match tattooed on his hip lined up with the flame tattooed on hers. It had taken them months to sleep together, she thought he was such a gentleman to wait. He told her that he wanted her so bad he was afraid he’d hurt her, didn’t want to do that.

At least she thought he didn’t want to. He would go out for a long time and come home with bruises, with lipstick on his collar or sometimes blood, perfume clinging to his coat, and he always snapped when she asked where he was. “I have to fuck someone,” he said. “So I can go out there and hurt them or stay here and hurt you.”

That was before he started really hurting her, though. Back then he still called her gorgeous, sexy, a girl who knew how to take care of him.

October 28th, 2009, she and Geoff Ramsey met a boy with sharp teeth who called himself the Jersey Devil and brought him home to meet the shining little protégé who called himself the Golden Boy. It was possession at first sight, obsession at first sight, red-mouthed smoldering  _ rage _ at first sight. Geoff wanted them to get along, wanted them to calm each other down.

At least she thought that’s what he wanted. He told her they were going to complete each other, they were going to help each other, they were going to push each other to be better than they were and watch each other’s back in this dismal city, and he always snapped when she suggested otherwise. “I know what the fuck I’m doing,” he said. “So why don’t you let me build a Crew while you do whatever else you do.”

That was before he started resenting her, though. Back then he still called her useful, clever, a girl who knew what she was doing.

And on October 2nd, 2013, on the six-month anniversary of the collapse of everything they’d spent years building, Geoff Ramsey came home with a half-empty bottle of absinthe and a scowl. He said that he’d had no luck rustling up any new possible Crew members and with Michael gone, Ray all but dead, Ryan only a sporadic presence, and Gavin inconsolable, nothing could get done.

She wanted to relax him, wanted to help him, wanted him to look at her like he used to, but instead of snapping, he threw the bottle at her. She ducked but it shattered against the wall. Geoff had never hit her, never hurt her unless she asked or she deserved it, and once he would’ve looked horrified at what he’d done. This time she looked him full in his unshaven face and saw only contempt and anger, and for the first time she was afraid of the man who swore he’d take care of her.

So she ran. She wore no coat or shoes, didn’t take her phone or wallet, did nothing but fled the building and took off. He wouldn’t be able to follow her in his state, not at a speed she couldn’t outpace. Sprinting through the back alleys embedded glass in her feet and the cold late autumn rain soaked her to the bone in a matter of minutes, and she ended up sobbing outside a church, muscles screaming and chest aching, and she couldn’t take a deep breath so even if she felt inclined to scream when the Vagabond slipped out of the shadows and reached for her, she couldn’t say a word.

His latex mask was intricately detailed and she had no idea what sort of mold was used, and she couldn’t help but wonder whose skull exactly had been the model. How he breathed in it she didn’t know but all she could see behind the eye holes were a pair of blue, blue eyes smeared with grease paint.

“Are you going to hurt me?” she asked softly, shaking from the cold and the fear and the rest of it.

Geoff would have answered  _ only if you want me to _ but Ryan shook his head and held out his hand. “Never,” he said, in the way Geoff hadn’t. “Never.”

He took her home; his apartment was ordinary, neat, small, out of the way. It wasn’t the black-mold-infested slums or a glass-and-chrome penthouse. It was the sort of apartment any normal man might keep. “I’m sure you’re cold,” he said, even though his hand in hers was very warm, “and I’ll fetch you a change of clothes in a minute. I want to get the glass from your feet first.”

He swept her up over the threshold like a bride so she wouldn’t smear blood on the carpet and set her on the kitchen counter, gathered up a towel, a set of tweezers, a flashlight, linen wrappings, and a bowl of warm water. He knelt before her, head bowed like a man at an altar. “Do you mind?” he asked, touching his mask. “I can’t see well enough with this on.”

She shook her head and he pulled it off and as far as she knew, none of them had ever seen him without the mask before, even Geoff. Michael and Ray used to speculate, Gavin used to officiate bets. But in truth Ryan was a very ordinary looking man, matched his apartment, with clean-shaven cheeks and sandy hair swept back from his forehead.

He was careful with her. She didn’t realize how  _ long _ it would take and Ryan was very thorough, smiled every time another bloody shard came away in his tweezers. It was kind, that he was happy to help, and without even thinking about it she told him what Geoff had said and done.

“I would say that he’ll reap what he sowed,” he said, binding her left foot with linen, “but that has not been my experience with Geoff, this city, or the world at large. I think there are people who make and people who take, and I think everyone spends a little time as both. Do you agree?”

Rainwater dripped off her eyelashes and slid down her cheeks. “I’m not sure I…”

“I used to go camping with my father,” he said. “And always there would be some people who caught the trout and others who scaled, deboned, and cooked it. The same thing would happen when we hunted deer.” Where did Ryan grow up that he was hunting deer and fishing for trout? “Some people would shoot, and the others would skin. The opposite of destruction is not peace, it’s creation, Jack.”

He said her name in a way Geoff never had. Why did he sound so warm?

“Geoff never gave you anything,” he continued, her foot in his hand and his eyes unblinking on hers. “He never loved you, he never helped you, and he never made anything for you. He took and he broke and he raged. I would never treat someone like that. Everything has its balance.”

“Protect me,” she blurted out. His brows shot up. “He–”  _ He loved me, he did, he does, _ she wanted to say, but the words stuck in her throat.  _ It was only that I didn’t– that I should have– I didn’t deserve– _ “He’s afraid of you. You can keep me safe from him.”  _ Until he remembers that he loves me the way I love him. _

He looked at her for long quiet moments. Geoff had been bright and sparkling in every room, busy and talkative and eye-catching, but Ryan seemed to savor the silence. “I would never hurt you, Jack, and I won’t let anyone else hurt you either. You’ve been sowing tender seeds for a very long time and you’ve been starved of sunlight. It’s time you reaped some of that.”

There was something underneath it all that she knew she was missing, but she was cold and tired and sad and her feet hurt, and looking  _ down _ at Ryan was too strange of a visual. “In return?”

He smiled, just a little. “Just what I said about deer and trout. Do you know how to cook?”


	4. Supernovas

As far as the law was concerned, Jeremy Nicholas Dooley owed $110 in an unpaid speeding ticket.

Nothing else of note to the law. He was well known at the Chinese takeout place on Pearl Street, at the gas station on West 14th where he usually had to count out quarters to fill his tank, at the 24-hour gym where he lifted weights after work. He’d been a B-student, a lapsed Catholic, and an animal lover with a heart too big for his short frame.

(He’d tried to pay the speeding ticket but the check got lost in the mail. Go figure.)

More than anything else Jeremy was known as the loudmouth counterpoint to Matt Bragg, equal parts roommate and platonic soulmate. Matt didn’t get out much. He didn’t need to, and more than that, didn’t want to. Home was where the fridge was, the Xbox, the cat, and, on a good night, where Jeremy was.

Matt knew Los Santos. Matt knew its layout, its people, their credit scores and online dating profiles and all the times the abandoned traffic cam on the outskirts caught them running reds. Matt knew who was dying, who was giving birth, and who was desperately wishing they were doing one or the other.

And that wasn’t such a gift when it came down to it. Cybersecurity in Los Santos was as weak as every other type of security, given the cops’ repeated failed attempts to loosen the gangs’ control of the city, and he knew how to cover his tracks so he wasn’t worried about getting caught out. He was getting good at the financial stuff now, transferred small amounts from hundreds of different accounts into his own, at random times and increments that would go unnoticed or written off as a glitch. Besides, he only took from the people who didn’t need it. Jeremy teased him, called him Robin Hood. Weren’t there worse things he could be?

So yes, Matt Bragg knew Los Santos but Los Santos didn’t know him, so he got to fly under the radar in a city so soaked in blood you could choke on it. Los Santos knew Jeremy, and so when Geoff Ramsey went skulking around for replacement to add to his broken, battered Crew, it was Jeremy he found.

“Dude, can you set  _ Alien _ up so we can watch it as soon as I get home?” Jeremy had his phone cradled between his shoulder and cheek as he wrapped his hands in boxer’s linen. “If I have to watch you fight with the DVD player again I’m just going to bed.”

_ “Yeah, it’s set up. You already asked me this morning,” _ said Matt. There was a rhythmic tapping in the background; Matt typed neat as a metronome. 

“Did I really?”

_ “You’re losing it, dude. I’m gonna have to put you in a home.” _

“But you’ll come to visit, right?”

He couldn’t see Matt smile over the phone but the pause meant he did.  _ “Every day.” _

“Great. Alright, I gotta beat the shit outta some bags. Should be home in an hour and a half, lemme know if you want me to stop at the convenience store for anything.”

_ “We’re out of Advil, but that’s it. See you then.” _

“See ya, Matt.” He dropped his phone in his bag, clipped the padlock on the locker, and went out to start his workout. At this time of night, after work, very few people were in the gym; mostly night owls and gym rats who basically lived there anyway. It was peaceful, he didn’t have to focus on whatever shitty power pop was blaring out of someone’s speakers, he didn’t have to fight for space at the mirror behind a bunch of bodybuilders who’d rather flex than work.

No, for Jeremy’s purposes, strength was about a lot more than looks. His shortness made him unassuming and that was best, he didn’t need to  _ look _ good, he needed to  _ be _ good. Fixing fights and hustling pool would never make him rich, but he was getting good at it and it made him feel powerful. When he could slam into a bag so hard it creaked, he felt powerful.

And when the Kingpin himself slinked up and asked for a word, he felt  _ goddamn powerful _ . “Honored,” he said, breathing hard. He stuck out a hand and after a moment, Los Santos’s most infamous crime lord shook it. “To, uh… what do I owe the pleasure?”

He wouldn’t say he was disappointed in what he saw of Geoff Ramsey but nor was he what Jeremy expected. He kept the company of the Vagabond, a blue-eyed demon who liked to tear open rib cages with his bare hands, or that owl-eyed sniper who laughed when he shot straight through the eye socket. He expected someone to match that caliber, a barrel-chested beast with a snarl. 

Instead he got a tired middle-aged man with grey in his unshaven beard, wearing a tuxedo that had seen better days and was a little tight at the middle. Jeremy could probably snap his spine over his knee. Doubtless that was why the Kingpin preferred to sit in his penthouse apartment rather than take the field.

“Jeremy Dooley,” he said with a weird lilt to the words, like he was asking a question he didn’t like the answer to.

“Yes sir.”

“You were recommended to me by an old friend. You’re a brawler?”

That was sort of a weird way of putting it, but… “Sure, I guess. Don’t do a ton of brawling.”

“That can change.” Geoff looked at him like he was meat and he shifted his weight. “Any trouble with the law?”

“No…”

“Any family in the area?”

“No, but–”

“Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

“No, not right–”

“Ever used a gun? Ever killed a man? Ever caused a distraction? Can you drive?”

“I can drive,” he said, dizzy with the questions. “I gave a couple concussions and I broke a guy’s kneecap with a baseball bat once. But, uh, never killed anyone… never shot a gun. Tend to be a little more melee.”

Geoff nodded slow and Jeremy didn’t like the look in his eyes. He had sleepy eyes, heavy-lidded and bruised, the eyes on every businessman at a coffeeshop early in the morning, but there was an unsettling gleam to them. If he didn’t know what it took to stay on top in this business Jeremy might have thought it was madness. “You’ll need work,” he said, and Jeremy felt a prickle down his spine. “But you’re young, you’re tough, no baggage… you’re gonna break so neat. Gavin likes ‘em pretty.” He tipped Jeremy’s chin up and he had to take a step back.

“I don’t think I wanna  _ break, _ ” he said. The place on his chin where Geoff’s chapped fingertips had brushed him tingled. “And I don’t need anyone to think I’m  _ pretty. _ ”

“Handsome, then,” said Geoff, like that was the concern. “In this business you gotta break instead of bend.”

“That doesn’t…”

“Supernovas,” said Geoff. “You know about supernovas? Stars are born from the remains of other dead stars. You’ll implode or maybe explode, you’ll crumble, you’ll burn. It’s rebirth, baby, not destruction.” And maybe he meant it sweet but the term of endearment came off clumsy and sick instead, like he’d overshot the balance. “And you’re gonna  _ love _ it. It’s such a rush, better than coke, and the  _ money… _ ”

Jeremy didn’t need the money; between work and hustling, not to mention Matt’s hacking, they made plenty. Nor had he ever done cocaine, didn’t stick to anything more than a few glasses of whiskey on a bad night or beer on a good one. But there was something about him that made  _ Geoff Ramsey, _ the Kingpin himself, seek him out. A recommendation… from who? Who knew enough, cared enough, about what Jeremy did with his fists to recommend him to this line of work, this prestigious a Crew? Matt would hate him for answering without talking about it first but Geoff did not look like he could wait. 

“Worth a shot, right?” he said, and if he expected to see relief or triumph or anything at all on Geoff’s face, he was mistaken and got a blank dead look. “When and where?”

“I’ll find you when I need you,” he said, “or when I want you.” Something about the phrasing felt strange so Jeremy looked down, wiped the sweat from his brow and refixed his hand wraps, and when he looked up Geoff was gone, with no evidence he’d ever been there at all.


	5. The Red-Gold Exchange

As far as the law was concerned, Gavin David Free was missing.

It was a case long since gone cold, files buried deep in cabinets with the media-coined reference “changeling” scribbled in the bylines. It still baffled detectives, actually; twelve-year-old Gavin disappeared from his bed in the middle of the night, replaced by a fourteen-year-old with the tired blue eyes of a man who didn’t exist. He said his name was Isaac and no one could determine if that was true; his mother was dead and he never breathed a word about his father, so as far as the law was concerned he was an orphan. Got adopted, later. Happy ending.

Gavin knew about Isaac, knew about changelings, knew about the unnamed mother buried in an unmarked grave. Never told the story to anyone but Michael, but he understood about “greater good.” The theory behind changelings was to strengthen the bloodline, trade out the weak for the useful. Isaac wasn’t ever going to hold a candle to Gavin, who skipped matches and went straight to flamethrowers.

That was what he thought about when Michael, white-knuckled, drove them past the city line: that if you need strong blood, you should move heaven and earth to bring them home.

“Like the first time,” Gavin murmured, watching the red-blood sunrise make their ugly city glow. “Do you remember?”

“Geoff sent us out together to make us a team. I told you to cause a distraction and you blew up a car.”

“You hated me back then.”

“No,” said Michael. Even exhausted by travel and rage, he was electric. Michael was the only pretty thing Gavin had ever owned that he’d never been tempted to break. “I didn’t hate you. Moment I saw you, I wanted you, wanted to fuck you breathless. I hate you  _ now. _ ”

He paused, the muscles jumping in his jaw. “No,” he amended. “I don’t hate you. I don’t care about you at all.”

That left Gavin so distressed he went quiet but he calmed himself down thinking about the gold ring in his dresser. It wasn’t a long drive to the apartment building Geoff kept up for them, but Gavin wished it was, wanted more time in a rental car he probably would never return with the man who was still his husband, no matter the brood he sired on some nobody.

“We kept your stuff,” he said. “Just like you left it.”

“I don’t care.” He paused. “What did  _ you _ keep?”

“Your Adder,” said Gavin, “and two of your teeth.”

They were two blocks from the apartment when Michael made a mistake and took a wrong turn.

At least, it must have been a mistake, because Michael knew the streets of Los Santos like he knew his own veins, and if he turned away on purpose, it had to be a reason. And Gavin knew, the way he knew the trio of freckles at the base of Michael’s spine, that there was no way he’d like the reason.

“The turn was back there,” he said softly, in case Michael was just mistaken.

“I know where the fucking turn was, Gavin,” he said. When he wanted to, Michael could speak like his teeth were gritted, even when they weren’t. “I’m not going to that  _ fucking apartment. _ ”

Gavin felt that old itch, to slap or caress or somehow do both at the same time. Michael used to say that he didn’t have a fight or flight instinct, he had fight or fuck, and Gavin set him off both ways. That feeling used to be so strong it hurt, he was afraid of the person he was when he was with Michael, but now… now he knew that stronger was always better and that there was no point in kiss-and-tell if you could kiss-and-shoot.

He said nothing as the sun rose and so did they, as Michael drove up the bumpy dirt road that would take them to Chilead’s peak. At the top, Michael threw the car in park so sharp it jolted and got out, stood at the edge of the cliff like he was contemplating jumping off. Gavin watched for a moment and when it became clear that Michael wasn’t going anywhere, he got out and stood beside him. The sunrise was behind them and all they could see was the city sprawled beneath them.

“Do you remember,” said Michael, his voice quiet but his face impassive, “the first time we were up here together?”

Of course he remembered. The bruises had lasted for weeks. “You told me you loved me for the first time.” It had been high midnight, the night before a big heist; the nights before had been almost somber, quiet. Ryan would disappear to nowhere; Geoff would sit on the balcony and smoke cigar after cigar; Jack would stand at the kitchen counter and mix drinks like she was trying to find a combination to make mustard gas; Ray would lock his bedroom door; and Michael would go out, away from the smog, and he’d taken Gavin with him.

The sky had been deep, royal purple, picked out with shattered-glass stars, and it was the kindest Michael had ever been in bending Gavin over the hood of his car. Michael didn’t hold him or anything after, they didn’t really do that, but when they were all alone with no one on the mountain to hear him begging, it felt so… intimate. So beautiful. It was a treasured memory. They didn’t have a honeymoon but after they got married they came back up here.

“That’s right,” said Michael, the rising sun bringing out the red-gold in his hair. “And I know this place means a lot to you because of that.”

Oh, he was so pleased that Michael remembered. “Of course it does.”

“So I wanted it to be here. This was where we were when I said I loved you for the first time, and so this is going to be the place where I tell you that I don’t love you.” Gavin’s smile slipped. “I’m not gonna lie and tell you I never loved you. But I don’t love you now. I don’t want to be married to you. I don’t want to be around you at all.”

He leaned on the railing and Gavin didn’t move at all. “You didn’t have to leave,” he said finally. “We can make up for lost time…”

Michael had eyes dark as the deep woods and they could either be cold and dead or sharp as barbed wire, but when he turned to Gavin, the light reflected off his glasses and Gavin couldn’t see his eyes at all. “You don’t fucking get it, do you? Do you think I left with no time to come back for you? Do you think I moped around wishing you came with me?  _ I left you! _ I left this fucking city, I left this fucking  _ time zone, _ and very importantly  _ I left you, _ Gavin. I did not forget. I did not have no time. I knew when I left that I wasn’t going to see you again and I did not  _ fucking care _ .”

For a full minute Gavin stood speechless but eventually the anger that was as deep in his heart as dandelion roots bloomed again. “You came back! You came back with me!”

Michael bared his teeth, a feral expression so natural it came unconsciously. That whore in Boston thought she’d domesticated him but Michael was wolf-wild and always would be. Gavin knew that. Gavin loved that. His so-called wife could never love him until she felt him sink in his teeth and claws. “ _ You put a knife to my daughter’s throat! _ You threatened my family with the fucking  _ Vagabond! _ You think I’m not gonna do what it takes to keep Ryan fucking Haywood away from my family?”

“ _ I’m your family!” _

Michael struck him in the chest just at the base of his sternum, so hard that it knocked the wind out of him and he stumbled back gasping for breath. “You’re my jailer,” he said in a voice like cracking bone. “Lemme tell you something. I know this city. I know its cops, its dumpsters, and its people. This is the only city in the world where I can tear you to pieces with my bare hands and not be convicted. This is the only city where I can rip out Geoff’s spine and kill you with it. If I’m burning this place down again, I’m doing it from the inside, and I’m making damn sure that if I die, you’re going the fuck with me.”

He turned towards the sunrise and got back in the car and Gavin was left perched at the edge of a cliff, clutching his aching heart. If he got to dig Michael out of the ashes, maybe burning the city down wouldn’t be such a bad thing.


	6. Glass, Stained or Shattered

As far as the law was concerned, James Ryan Haywood was the most promising young maxillofacial surgeon on the West Coast.

This was something his Crew could have learned about him by Googling, but none had ever bothered. Geoff preferred the underground rumor mill to learn about his hopefuls and no one else cared enough. Truth be told Michael was too afraid to look under the mask, even metaphorically. That was how Ryan liked to hide: in plain sight.

When Geoff called him and told him there was a Crew meeting, he didn’t scrub the blood from under his nails or the lipstick from his collarbone, just straddled his bike and took off.

It had been five years since he’d been to Geoff’s penthouse; with no Crew, there were no meetings. The rumor maelstrom surrounding the formerly most influential gang in the city left Ryan with some choice expectations: pretty golden Gavin reuniting with his firecracker husband, a steadily declining Geoff reliving his glory days, and sweet newcomer Jeremy Dooley playing the white doe to Ray’s Iphigenia. If Geoff was their sky, their primordial patriarch, that made Ryan his Kronos. And Goya understood what  _ that _ made him.

Everything was the same as it had always been, which was almost disappointing; once upon a time Geoff had been able to surprise him. Geoff sat heavily in a leather armchair in a suit that no longer fit as it once did, and behind him there was a shattered bottle of absinthe left untouched and gathering dust even with how neat the rest of the room was. Gavin’s foundation stood starkly out against his blotchy face and he gold leaf underlining his brows glittered when he moved. Michael, red-eyed devil that he was, glowered at the floor like he was too angry to make eye contact.

Ryan knew he just didn’t want to look at  _ him, _ and reveled in it.

“Hello,” he said, like it had been only days and not years. He could fix Gavin’s burn scars if he wanted. He didn’t want. “Michael, so good to see you again. How is your wife?”

Michael’s head snapped up to meet his gaze, clearly warring between the enjoyment of hearing  _ wife _ and the fear of what it meant. “Not your business.”

“Lindsay, right? Your daughter has her eyes–”

_ “Don’t you talk about her!” _

“And I understand congratulations are in order, that you’re expecting a son in fourteen weeks.”

The fear increased but so did the obstinacy. “No. No son.”

“Well, I understand they thought it was a girl. This morning’s sonogram revealed the truth.”

“You fucking  _ liar–” _

“Ask her,” he said with a careless shrug. “And congratulate her for me.”

Michael looked ready to tear him apart neuron by neuron but Gavin put a hand on his arm, and he bared his teeth like a wild chimp but said nothing.

“If we’re done with this dick-measuring contest,” said Geoff, almost bored. “Nice to see you, Ryan. You look good.”

Just what he’d always said, and damn the fact he’d never seen beneath the black skull. “Thanks,” he said, taking a seat in the armchair that used to be Jack’s. Geoff’s look was sharp but he said nothing. “Been eating well.”

“New butcher?”

“Girlfriend,” he said, let the word drip innuendo. His smart-mouth redhead was more a secret than a girlfriend and briefly it occurred to him to wonder if Geoff knew where she went. Either way, she gave him what he needed: some companionship, but a cook, mostly. In return he gave her the security she needed but not the love she wanted. Maybe once a month or so he fucked her senseless to make up for it. “I hear we’re still short a member.”

“He’ll be here at three. I wanted all of you first.”

“Honored,” said Ryan, “but he’s replacing Ray. Forgive me but we still seem to be one short.”

Geoff almost imperceptibly turned his head like he wanted to look at that dusty broken bottle, but he caught himself. “We have everything we need.”

“Balance,” said Ryan. “I needed a sniper to balance me out and you’ve brought me a brawler. You’ve still got fire and ice here but they can’t look at each other and separate business from pleasure. And you–”

“ _ I don’t need anyone!” _ But the crack in his voice took the menace out. “I need you to be with me, Ryan! If you’re not working in the Crew’s best interest you’d better leave.”

“Of course,” said Ryan with a smile no one could see. 

“You’ll kill for me?”

“Like I always have.”

“You’d die for me?”

Well, now. “I think it’s more likely that I’ll die  _ because _ of you, but alright. Would you die for me, Geoff?”

Once Geoff had had blue jasmine eyes, disarmingly bright but comfortingly warm. There was nothing in the least warm about them now and every look was as empty as the wide, wide sky. “Never,” he said, and Ryan actually respected that.

“So,” he continued, “there are a few other old contacts we need to rustle up. I’ve got their last known whereabouts but they’d all rather talk to you three. Ryan, call up Jon Risinger, I need a front page article about our comeback. Gavin, reestablish a police connection. I’m sure Miles Luna misses your sweet face.”

“I’m not your whore,” he said, his first words all day. His voice had a cracked and watery quality, like a skipping stone.

“Sure you are. My pretty golden whore. Get him back, I want a man on the inside.”

“Now who’s the adulterer?” Michael muttered. Gavin’s face fell.

“Michael…”

“I’m  _ definitely _ not your whore,” he snapped. 

“Yeah, I know. You’re more likely to shove a guy’s cock down his own throat than yours. Reestablish our demo connections. Kerry, Andy, whoever. When you’re done, go talk to Mica at the airfield.”

_ “What? _ I’m on getaway now?”

“You don’t want to escape the scene?”

“Where the fuck did Jack go? Did you do to her what I did to Ray?” Oh, Ryan enjoyed the curl that brought to Geoff’s lip. “Is that what  _ he _ means about balance?”

Ryan had an ordinary name, a strong simple English name, a respectable name. There was no intrinsic quality to the word that should make a man afraid to say it… and yet Michael was afraid to say it.

“How sweet of you to be so concerned,” said Ryan.

“Can I trust you to get it done or not?” asked Geoff, and Michael so clearly wanted to scream but he threw himself back on the couch, jerked away from Gavin’s would-be comforting touch, and grit his teeth.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

Michael growled; he’d been feral since the moment Ryan met him.  _ “Yes sir.” _

“Good boy. You’ll get a bigger cut for doing more work. Or, hell, take what you want from Kerry, Andy, or Mica.”

“Not sure Kerry Shawcross has anything in his wallet worth taking.”

“So don’t take his wallet. I don’t care, Michael, just Don’t rough him up too bad. Make sure he enjoys it if you can.”

There was a knock at the door and Geoff called out, “come in.”

Ryan had never had the pleasure of meeting Jeremy Dooley in person but he had a solid reputation, and he looked just how he ought to: broad-shouldered, with massive hands and a sweet face. Geoff’s stained glass window caught the afternoon sun and the rose motif blurred across Jeremy’s face like a burn, like blood, like the lipstick Ryan didn’t wash off his collarbone. Ryan said nothing. His best first impressions were silent.

They made quite the picture, he would have to admit: the Kingpin with tattoos peeking out from his shirtsleeves, the Jersey Devil with flashing eyes and torn jeans, the Golden Boy with a lowered gaze and sharp cheekbones, and the faceless Vagabond all in blue and black. “You made it,” said Geoff, as though they were meeting for drinks.

“Nice place,” said Jeremy. There was room on the couch but he pulled a chair over from the dining room table to join the group. “Did I miss anything?”

Poor boy. Didn’t he know this city, and Geoff himself, was going to eat him alive?


	7. A Tragedy in Three Parts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know I just updated two days ago. What can I say? Ideas!

As far as the law was concerned…

...Kerry Shawcross was a victim (brutally mugged nearly every month, poor kid).

...Miles Luna was a hero (wrote up all the arrest warrants right on time, good man).

...Jon Risinger was a trusted source (reported on all of it honestly, nice guy).

_ Oh, Kerry? Kerry, works at the hardware store? Round face, big smile? Such a sweet kid, he’d never hurt a– _

_ Officer Luna’s on track to be chief in the next few years. There was some trouble a while back but you don’t prosecute the police for– _

_ Risinger, right, comes on at eight on channel four. Never heard a bad word about him, always knows just what’s going– _

“Look how pretty,” said Kerry, hefting a firework gun to his shoulder. He wanted Michael’s cash in his–

“Look how pretty,” said Miles, looking down at the man on his knees. He wanted Gavin’s mouth on his–

“Look how pretty,” said Jon, gesturing to the orange-pink sunset. He wanted Ryan’s voice over the–

“Good to see you again.”

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Don’t make me wait another five years, alright?”

***

It was a good looking slab of meat, tender, only faintly veined with fat. No skin; Ryan did the skinning for her. “Thyme,” he said, scrubbing the greasepaint from his eyes, “and rosemary.” He grew herbs in window-boxes that Jack was careful to keep well-watered.

“It’s a good cut,” she said.

“Reconnected with an old friend who always knows where to get good meat. He knows the best butcher in town.”

“And who’s that?”

“Me,” he said, with a low chuckle. Jack smiled even though he was turned away from her.

“How was the Crew meeting?”

“Unexpectedly predictable.”

She hesitated, stared at the meat. “Did Geoff ask about–”

_ “Jack,” _ he warned.

“I’m only curious.”

“You know him too well to ask that. You’re too smart to ask such a stupid question. I’m disappointed in you, Jack.”

He did indeed sound disappointed and it crushed her. She was smart, he said so, she had to do better. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right.”

He hummed in acknowledgement. “And what did you do today?”

She could not quite stop looking at the meat. Ryan brought home fresh meat about once a month but it never got less strange. “I made a heist plan. A good one, one that would work.”

“Work with what crew? Mine has no sniper–”

“No crew,” she said. “Just you and me.”

“A full-blown heist with just us? Nearly impossible.”

“Nearly,” she agreed. “Here.” She grabbed her notebook from the counter, an organized disaster comprised of maps, schedules, and her chicken-scratch handwriting. Ryan looked over it carefully, and every time he opened his mouth to raise a question or objection, he found the answer in the notes.

“This is well-done,” he finally admitted. “Your plan hinges on a brutal man on the ground who won’t hesitate for anything, and a getaway driver who can navigate the city by heart going 90. You made this plan for  _ us.” _

She glowed with the praise. “Yes. This is a plan no other crew can use, and the cops won’t be looking out for only two of us.”

“And you’re assuming Gavin can get Luna back under his thumb, so even if I’m spotted, Luna assumes I’m on Geoff’s orders.”

“The only thing Gavin was ever good at was making men want to fuck him,” she said. “I’m sure the bastard will have Luna crying daddy by the end of the week.”

Ryan had a thunderclap voice and lightning smiles that so contrasted the blue summer in his eyes. Or, maybe it wasn’t contrast but complement– a sunshower, a quick-rising Florida storm. Dangerous, and always too sudden to plan for. “Good girl,” he said in that boom of a voice, with that white-hot smile. “Such a good, smart girl. You’re so lucky you found someone who can appreciate that.”

Lucky. That’s what she was, to have Ryan. Not scared or hurt or unappreciated, she was so… lucky.

***

“You said he’d want to come back,” said Gavin softly. He sat at Geoff’s feet like he’d done for years and occasionally, on a good day, Geoff would reach out and ruffle his hair like he used to when he was a child. He didn’t do it very much anymore.

“I did not,” said Geoff, lighting his cigarette. “I said you have to make him want to come back. You’re good at that, right? Making them want you.”

“I can make them want to have me. I don’t know how to make them keep me.”

“Keep,” repeated Geoff, looking down at the book in his lap. “What a useless sentiment. You don’t want them to hold you, Gavin, you want them always on the chase. Push them away and pull them towards you all at once, that’s what men want. If Miles Luna thought he could have you whenever he wanted, he’d drop you in a month, but he gets you on  _ my _ schedule and he likes the anticipation.”

In truth Gavin wouldn’t have minded if Miles wanted him more often, wanted to hold him. Maybe then he’d kiss him. But that was disrespectful to Michael; he strayed on Geoff’s command, never of his own volition. If Michael had asked him to come to Boston, would he go? What sort of life would they have had there? How many throats would Gavin have to slit to keep Michael safe, faithful?

Geoff turned another page in his book and didn’t look at Gavin, but Gavin stared up at him. “Why did you let me marry him,” he asked, “if you didn’t want me to love him?”

“What the fuck does marriage have to do with love? I don’t care what you feel about him, you just have to work with him.”

“I don’t think he can–”

_ “Gavin,” _ he warned. “Don’t argue with me.”

“What are you gonna do? Hurt me?”

Geoff tapped his cigarette and the ash fell onto Gavin’s shoulder, and he reached out to trace the burn lines down his cheeks. Geoff was the only person Gavin never hid from. “You’re hurt enough,” he said, and Gavin’s lip quivered. “You’re the family I chose, remember? You and I, it wasn’t some… accident of genetics. I hand-picked you. Why would I throw you away?”

Why does anyone throw anything away? When it stops being useful.

***

_ “Hey! Dooley!” _

Jeremy turned around, saw Michael Jones striding up to him. They’d only met yesterday but already Michael was looking at him like he knew him. “Uh, hi, Michael…”

“Geoff said you’re a brawler.”

He looked down at his hands. “I mean, I guess… I didn’t think we had, like, RPG classes or whatever.” Michael’s look was blank so he shook his head. “Never mind. What’s up?”

“You’re a brawler,” he said again, “and I’m ready to brawl.”

Jeremy barked out a laugh but Michael’s jaw didn’t unclench. “What– now? I just got out of work.”

“So what? I need to know what you can do.”

“Obviously Geoff knows what I can do or he wouldn’t have hired me.”

Michael bared his teeth in warning. “And I’m not Geoff.”

“What do you want me to do, punch you in the face right here? The cops–”

“You think the cops in  _ this city _ give a shit about two assholes fighting in an alley? Even if they did, we’ve got a man on the inside. Just fucking  _ punch me, _ coward!”

That was it. Jeremy dropped his bag and muscle memory brought him into a boxer’s stance, and when Michael swung wildly he ducked without thinking. Michael blocked his feint but didn’t recoup in time to avoid Jeremy’s right hook and it caught him on the upper lip, and his teeth stayed in his mouth this time but his nose broke and started streaming blood. “That’s better,” Michael said, and threw a punch dead-on that slammed into Jeremy’s shoulder.

“Did Geoff ask you to test me?” He swept his foot at Michael’s ankles and it successfully tripped him, but he scrambled back up before Jeremy could pin him or anything. It was like watching a junkyard pitbull.

“I don’t do what Geoff  _ fucking tells me!” _

A nerve. If there was anything Jeremy had learned in all the bar fights he’d gotten into, it was that the right words were as powerful as a good cross punch. “Really?” he said, ducked again, struck out again. “That’s not what I heard. I heard you ran all the way back here when daddy came calling.” He slammed an open palm against Michael’s chest, hard enough it knocked the wind out of him. “I heard you came back just like the well-trained dog you are.”

“If you’re lucky,” Michael wheezed, hands on knees. He spat out a mouthful of blood. “If you’re lucky, Geoff’s only gonna fuck you literally.”

“What’s the alternative? He fucks me metaphorically?”

“He’ll eat you alive,” he said, coughing up more blood and trying to breathe. “And nobody who crosses us gets an open-casket funeral.”

Jeremy made a mental note to keep closer to Geoff and farther from Michael, who was looking at him with an intensely unhinged expression. They called him devil and he understood why. The trick to winning a fight was to depersonalize yourself from the situation; angry people made mistakes. And yet he was angry, and the desire to lash out just to hurt was a new one but strong. “Geoff said Gavin thinks I’m pretty,” he said. “You’re still married, right? I could have him anyway.”

Michael finally caught his breath and wiped his face with the back of his hand. All it did was smear the blood worse, and it was very slightly spattered across his crooked glasses. “Take him,” he said. “Fuck him. Kill him, for all I care. Look up what happened to the guy you replaced and figure out how you wanna talk to me next time.”

He strode away before Jeremy could even think of what to say next, leaving him with a bloody fist and not much else.


	8. Of Alchemy and Infamy

As far as the law was concerned–

_ “Hey Luna, go long!”  _ Miles looked up from his paperwork just quick enough for him to catch the brick of coke Blaine lobbed at him.

“If that had hit me, I’d have gotten concussed. We’re professionals. Do you know what I’d have to do for paperwork because you were playing catch with contraband?”

“What?”

“Drop you in the betting pool,” he said with a grin, and he tapped the poster on the wall. The LSPD played football together in their off-hours and current bets had Blaine as a favorite to make the most touchdowns by the end of the fiscal quarter. It would make him a pretty chunk of change– as long as he stayed the favorite.

“Did you hear who we caught soliciting a prostitute last night?”

“No…”

“Demarais!”

Miles laughed. “Demarais, from the DA’s office? Did you book him?”

“Hello no! He gave us a hundred bucks and the girl’s card so we gave him a high-five and left.”

“Nice. Gimme her number, will you?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

***

Miles Luna lived uptown in a very average apartment building. His neighbor was friendly, the view out his windows was lovely, his cat waited happily for him to come home. It was a nice, quiet respite from the horrors of work.

Usually.

Because when Miles left for work, there was not a dead body in his living room.

He recognized Chris Demarais, obviously. They’d met in court a dozen times, but on none of those occasions was he shirtless and clutching a rotting pomegranate in his hands. On none of those occasions did he have a cat gnawing on his cheek. And on none of those occasions did he have the words ‘we’re back’ in beautiful calligraphy, carved into his chest.

***

He did not want to scream. He was a seasoned police officer well on his way to being named chief, and it was 2am, and his nice neighbor had such weird work hours that he hardly slept as it was, and  _ what if he was a suspect– _

So he screamed anyway.

Within a minute there was a knock on his door and his neighbor’s booming voice came through. “Is everything alright? Can I help?”

“No– yes– I don’t know…” But he opened the door anyway.

“Hello,” said his neighbor, as pleasantly as though it was 2pm. “Lovely place you’ve got here, looks just like mine.” He stepped in, saw the body. His blue, blue eyes widened but only fractionally. “Goodness. My place doesn’t have one of those.”

“I didn’t do it,” Miles said quickly, desperately. “I just got home from work–”

“I know, I heard you come in. Happy to provide an alibi as needed.” He crouched beside the body– beside  _ Chris. _ “Besides, not much blood on the floor, so he wasn’t killed here. The wounds were made while he was still alive.”

“How– how do you–”

“I’m a surgeon, I can distinguish between ante-, peri-, and postmortem injuries. As for the rest…” He shrugged, didn’t smile. “Too much  _ CSI, _ I suppose. Shoo,” he said to the cat, swatting at her. “Better keep you close, you’ve got evidence in there.”

She hissed and Miles grabbed her. “Be nice, Ruby,” he said, and closed her in the bedroom. “I guess I’d– I’d better call the station. Christ, he had a girlfriend…”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and did sound sorry. “You call the station. I’ll make a cup of tea.”

***

Matt Bragg, as a general rule, did not answer the phone. Anyone important would leave a message and he didn’t want to talk to anyone who wasn’t important. But when the same number called the landline five times in three minutes, he bit the bullet. “Hello?”

_ “Thank God,” _ said a man’s voice he didn’t recognize.  _ “Is Jeremy there?” _

“No, he’s at work…”

_ “Legit work, or Geoff Ramsey’s work?” _

Matt furrowed his brow. Ramsey used to be an account he’d steal from regularly, but that well had been all but dry for years. “Jeremy doesn’t even know Geoff Ramsey.”

_ “Sorry to be the one that told you, then. Just make sure he’s alright, will you? Keep him safe if you can.” _

“Safe from what?”

_ “Himself,” _ the man said, and then the line went dead.

***

It was raining, a warm spring rain, the kind that would coax flowers to bloom in window-boxes, in the park, in sidewalk cracks. It was raining and Gavin’s makeup was only waterproof to a point, and if there was anyone on Earth he did not want seeing his scars, either literal or metaphorical, it would be the Vagabond.

“Hello, Gavin,” said Ryan from behind him. He stopped himself from jumping but still flinched. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I’m not happy,” he said, and flinched again at how broken he sounded. “And you are. How?”

“You want inspiration,” said Ryan. “An invocation to the Muses.”

“I– I don’t–”

“‘Sing, goddess, of the wrath of–’”

“Stop it,” said Gavin. “No– no poetry.”

“It’s a lesson. Golden Achilles wasn’t happy either. How many karats are you, Gavin? What’s your purity percentage? Are you gold, or are you gilded steel? Or,” he considered, “are you tin painted yellow?”

“Gold,” he said firmly. “Pure gold.”

“More’s the pity,” said Ryan with a sigh. He touched Gavin’s cheek, gentle as a lover. “Your Michael’s dynamite, and as you know… dynamite blasts melt gold.”

“Stop speaking in riddles.”

Ryan laughed. “You’re Geoff’s boy, alright. In this city, with your upbringing and education, only one thing will ever make you happy.”

“Death?”

“Flesh,” said Ryan. “The pleasures of or the destruction of. Spread a man’s legs or split his skull, that’s all there is here. Hobbies and happiness are for other people.”

“You sound like Michael know.  _ Fuck or fight.” _

“Michael knows this city, he just thinks the rules don’t apply to him.” He shrugged. “You don't’ have to like my answer, but you wanted it. I’m impressed you even had the courage to seek me out.”

“What can I say,” he said, watching their black-and-gold reflections in a puddle. “I’m Geoff’s boy, alright.”

***

The librarian did not look happy to see Michael. And why should she? He was dirty, pissed off, and probably looked illiterate. But if he’d learned anything from Ryan– and he’d tried not to– it’s that truth comes in bone-deep. Sometimes that was literal but not always, so Michael resigned himself to a long night of combing through old newspapers, looking for his savior.

It took until five in the morning, nine long and angry hours. Once when Geoff had needed info from him, he’d send him off with however many uppers he could take without going into cardiac arrest. Hadn’t touched all that in years. Didn't want to miss it. Missed it anyway.

But he found what he was looking for. No doubt all four names under the picture were fake, but it was a starting point. Of the men, one was looking at Geoff with something approximating affection, and he had an aesthetic Michael recognized.

Alchemists could turn lead into gold but people lie this man, like Gavin, turned gold into blood. Geoff was due for some divine retribution, and no one knew him better than an ex-crew member. So Michael was going to find him.

He was going to find Joel Heyman.


	9. Atlas, Aces, and Absolute Mistakes

As far as the law was concerned, Joel Pearce Heyman was certifiable.

He lived on the outskirts, and his was the only house on his street, which boasted zero appearances on Google Maps and a hand-painted sign that said neither  _ street _ nor  _ avenue _ but merely the name CRASSUS. He paid his mortgage on time every month, in cash. Occasionally, curious where the cash came from, rookie officers would roll up and try to question him. Not one of them made it to the front door; the dead deer in his driveway with no eyelids and its mouth slit up to its ears consistently frightened them away.

Michael couldn’t care less about the fucking deer. Michael flipped it the bird as he roared up the path on his Daemon. He wore what might as well have been his crew uniform– diesel jeans and combat boots, brown leather jacket over a red t-shirt that once read CLASS OF ‘87 but had faded to ASS 8. He leaned the bike against Joel’s shitty wood-paneled station wagon, scratching the paint. The plate was custom, said CROESUS. Michael flipped that off too.

He pounded on the door with the heel of his hand. “I know you’re in there, Heyman,” he called, and saw the blinds twitch. “I got questions for you, cockbite.”

“That’s quite rude,” said Joel, pulling the door open with one hand and holding a pipe in the other. Michael wasn’t sure what he expected; maybe a wild-bearded mountain man or the tattooed gangster stereotype of Geoff. He did not expect a tall, clean-shaven guy with nervous eyes who was a couple years older than Geoff but looked a decade younger.

“What the fuck kinda weed do you smoke in a pipe that stupid?” Michael asked, pushing past him into his living room. It looked well-lived-in and could’ve been any hunting cabin but for the stack of gold bricks beside the armchair.

“The kind that is, ah, opium,” said Joel, locking the door and leaning against the wall to watch Michael take stock of his place. “You must be one of Geoff’s boys.”

Michael’s heart seized in his chest. “Did he tell you–”

“Oh, no. But the only people who find me are cops and the next generation, so to speak, and I know how to tell. Matt’s dead. Gus is on his yacht, drinking like he hopes he’ll die tomorrow. Burnie raised up a crew of girls, Ashley and Meg and whatnot. Geoff’s boys have the world on their shoulders. You know about Atlas, boy?”

“My name is Michael.”

“Is it? That’s wonderful. You know about Atlas, boy?”

Michael bared his teeth. “Held up the world.”

“Still does, if you believe the Greeks, which I’m inclined to do. They were right about the astrolabe. Of course I think most religions have some grain of truth–”

“Get to the goddamn point.”

“Atlas had one chance to get out,” said Joel. “Tricked Hercules into taking his place. Ever noticed how often that theme arises? Artemis sent down a doe when Agamemnon–”

_ “The point!” _

“One chance,” he said again. “After Hercules tricked him into taking his place back, he never got back out. Did you take your chance to run, boy? Because I think you looked me up because you got tricked into coming back.”

“Fuck off,” Michael said, moved towards the door, but Joel threw out a surprisingly strong arm and stopped him. “Move it, Heyman. I’m not putting up with any bullshit poetry. I only put up with Ryan because I have to.”

“Yes, Ryan has that way about him. An old friend,” he said in response to Michael’s furrowed brow. “But you didn’t come here to talk about James. You came to talk about Geoff. You want his weaknesses, and you think for some reason I’ll give them to you.”

“You can’t be friends. Your gang broke up.”

“Splitting a gang is like splitting stocks. Or mitosis. It’s a show of strength.”

“He never talks about you.”

“No? He named his favorite boy after me. Golden Boy, right?”

“I’m leaving. You can’t help me.” He tried again to push past Joel but his arms were iron and he felt like a toddler.

“People are things to Geoff but he has favorite things. Golden Boy is not one of them, really. I heard his woman ran off a couple years back. Mark my words,” said Joel. “Whoever has her, has Geoff. Go find the Queen of Hearts.”

“Not the Ace, huh?”

“Aces are high or low depending on the game. That’s Geoff. And if he’s the Ace and he’s holding the Queen, he’s gonna make damn sure there’s no Kings in the deck. You hear me, boy?” His eyes were wild and Michael shrunk back reflexively.

“You’re telling me to win at a game he’s cheating in. How?”

“Stack the deck. Change the rules. Bring me a cut of the kitty, will you?” He pushed Michael outside without another word and locked the door.

***

_ [BLOCKED]: are you free this afternoon? _

_ Jeremy: who is this? _

_ [BLOCKED]: it’s Gavin _

_ [BLOCKED]: I just think we should get to know each other better _

_ Jeremy: ...I get out of work at seven? _

_ [BLOCKED]: viewing deck at the top of Chilead? _

_ Jeremy: ...okay… _

 

Jeremy wasn’t sure exactly what to expect when he drove up the mountain. On the one hand, he could absolutely take Gavin in a fight if it came to that. On the other, he absolutely could not take Ryan, if Gavin brought backup. It probably would be best to ingratiate himself with his new crew, though. Geoff made him nervous and Michael made him angry but Gavin looked desperately as though he needed guidance and Ryan could probably keep him safe if it came to that.

There was no need to worry, it turned out. There was just a bike propped against the railing and Gavin leaning on it as well, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cigarette smoke slipping delicately from his fingers. “Hey,” said Jeremy softly, so as not to scare him. He thought Gavin might be the jumpy type but he barely reacted, turned just a bit with an animalistic roll of his eyes to look at Jeremy.

“You made it just in time,” said Gavin, looking back to the horizon.

“In time for what?”

“Sunset.” He said the word like there was some significance to it, like it  _ meant _ something to him other than the same turn of the Earth every single day. The view was lovely from here, admittedly, away from the smog and light pollution of the inner city; the skyline was orange, but behind them it was already deep purple, the first few stars glittering bright. Jeremy couldn’t quite help staring at the gradient.

“Pretty,” said Jeremy. “Is that… why you wanted to meet me here?”

Gavin sighed, stubbed out the cigarette, stuffed it in his pocket. “How do you say goodbye,” he said, “to someone who’s already gone?”

“God, man, I wish I knew. Never was very good at saying goodbye.”

“Goodbyes are only tragic if you have something worth losing.” He was facing the horizon but his eyes were vacant, stuck in middle distance. “I didn’t have anything worth losing before him.”

Jeremy had no idea who Gavin was talking about but Gavin spoke as if he did, so he opted not to ask. Geoff, maybe? “That sucks,” he said, noncommittally.

“That’s a word for it.” Gavin sighed, looked down. He had a warm, round cast to his features, the kind of face well-made for smiles and laughter, but his cheeks were hollow and dusted with gold like faint freckles and his eyes were sad, sad, sad. “I think we’re alike.”

Did he mean Jeremy, or his mystery guy? Because Jeremy had no goddamn idea what he had in common with Gavin Free. “Geoff said you think I’m pretty,” he said, instead of a response that would make sense. Maybe that would make him smile.

Maybe at another time it would have but he did not smile. “All that means is that  _ he _ thinks you’re pretty. And he said it out loud knowing it would get back to me, because what that means is  _ don’t touch.” _

If Jeremy’s options were between Geoff and no one, he’d pick celibacy. He’d been doing alright with it so far. “Was he worried you’d make a move?”

“Geoff doesn’t worry,” said Gavin immediately. “And I’m married to someone who would rather be dead than married to me, so I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. But it would be nice, don’t you think? To be wanted?”

Oh, his voice sounded  _ so _ empty, he looked  _ so _ broken up about it… Gavin was older than him by two or three years and was a full half foot taller but Jeremy felt the weird babysitter-instinct to tell him it was gonna be okay. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think it probably would be.”

“Is it petty to want someone just because someone else doesn’t want you?”

Ah, that was not nearly as subtle as he probably thought. “To fuck for spite?”  _ If you’re lucky he’ll just fuck you literally, _ Michael had said of Geoff. Gavin was plainly in love with Michael, the rumor mill had brought him that one, and he wanted to get back at him for something. As it happened Jeremy would love to shove that in Michael’s face, to hurt him just for the sake of hurting him. Their fist fight had ended before he got all his anger out. “It’s petty and pathetic and sad and I’m completely into it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Gavin didn’t smile but the slight turn to his head made the gold on his cheeks shimmer. “I can’t wait for you to break my heart, Jeremy.”

And that was weird, right? That was a weird thing to say? Jeremy was suddenly unsure if sex would give him leverage over anyone in the Crew or if it only drew him in deeper than he’d meant. He knew Matt would tell him to just go home. Matt would be right. He was not going to listen to Matt.

“Well,” he said, “I got a couple ideas on what to do before that.”


	10. Secrets Worth Keeping

As far as the law was concerned, Lindsay Elise Jones took calls from an untraceable number.

“I should be home soon,” said Michael in a low voice. It was early morning and the sky was deep indigo, warm and lovely and considerably better suited to a conversation with his wife than with his crew. He was on the roof of their apartment building and Geoff had the penthouse, if he were sober he could easily hear Michael… but near as he could tell, it had been years since he was sober.

_ “Okay,” _ said Lindsay.  _ “We miss you.” _

“How’s the little munchkin?”

_ “Asleep. Wants to know when you’re coming back.” _

Michael smiled even though she couldn’t see him. “Soon. Tell her I love her. And I love you.”

_ “You too. Hey, what’s the time zone situation? What time is it there? Is it five?” _

“Yeah,” said Michael, even though it was four. “Hey, I know you gotta go to work, but you can call me whenever and I’ll pick up. Come hell or high water I’ll pick up.”

_ “Okay. See you soon.” _ She made a sound that was either a kiss or a raspberry and hung up, and Michael just dropped his head in his hands.

***

Matt Bragg did not answer to a knock on the door. Everyone he wanted to see– a short list of Jeremy and his own mother– had a key. If a neighbor wanted sugar or a Jehovah’s Witness wanted to convert him, he’d sooner pretend to be out. Or dead.

He’d forgotten about the unanswered knock until Jeremy came home with a cardboard box under his arm. “Someone left us a package,” he said, setting it on the counter. Matt paused his game to stand beside Jeremy and stare at the box.

“What do you think it is?” It was unlabeled, so not an Amazon order.

“If we’re lucky, half a million in cash.”

“We’re not usually lucky.”

“True! So, what, dog shit? Dog head?”

Matt wrinkled his nose. “Christ, Jeremy, I doubt it’s a  _ dog head. _ Just open it, you freak.”

It was not a dog head, but it was meat, two vacuum-sealed steaks and a note that read  _ ‘from the best butcher in Los Santos –RH’. _ Matt frowned, but Jeremy had a weirder look on his face. “Who’s RH?” Matt asked.

“Coworker,” said Jeremy, and Jeremy had never lied to him before but he couldn’t help remembering that weird phone call:  _ legit business, or Geoff Ramsey’s business? _ And none of that seemed to connect with two days ago, coming home with hickeys he pretended weren’t there. Matt didn’t have  _ hunches… _ but he was unsettled anyway.

***

Geoff was out on the balcony having a smoke when Ryan found him. Usually he’d smoke inside, tapped his ash wherever he felt like, but occasionally some mood would strike that compelled him to let the sun hit his face. Even then he was nearly vampiric about it; it was still after sunset.

If he was concerned that Ryan got into his locked apartment, he didn’t show it. “Evening,” he said blankly. “Need a light?”

“I’m set,” he said with a carefully measured amount of disgust, as though small-cell carcinoma was infinitely more distasteful than Creutzfeldt-Jakob.

“I heard about that display you made me. From the DA.”

“Ah, did you like that? I thought a proper reunion warranted a proper calling card.”

“The pomegranate was a nice touch.”

“Wasn’t it just?” He knew Geoff didn’t understand the symbolism, would merely like the thought of making fussy Chris Demarais hold rotting fruit in death. Ryan liked the two-sided coin of Persephone and vanitas– representing both life and death. No one appreciated his work. Maybe Jack. She only understood what he allowed her to, though. “I was thinking of making a sequel. Who, do you think? I was considering one of Luna’s rookies, maybe Marquis–”

“No,” said Geoff. “Not yet. Too many connections. We need Luna.”

And they  _ had _ Luna, Ryan could easily pin Demarais on him and Gavin could ask for absolutely anything while Luna’s pants were around his ankles and it was good as done. But there was no use arguing with Geoff. He was stubborn as an ox and half as useful so Ryan could just disobey if he wanted.

“I want her,” Geoff said, staring into nothing.

“Her? Luna’s very pretty but I wouldn’t say–”

“You know who I mean.”

Yes, he did. “You’ve been saying she’s good as dead, as I understand.”

“She isn’t dead. I know every mortician in a fifty mile radius.”

“You found Michael three thousand miles away.”

Geoff dropped the cigarette butt and lit another. “She wouldn’t go that far away.”

“How touching that you still care.”

“Bought her a ring years ago. Isn’t that what the vows say?  _ Til death do us part? _ I kill her or no one does.”

Would that flatter her or terrify her? She relied on Ryan for protection but had never let Geoff go, not really. In this city creating life and bringing death were deeply connected; making love and making war often came back to back.   _ Fuck or fight _ , Gavin had said. Would she be honored that the Kingpin of Los Santos wanted his own hands around her throat again?

***

Ryan didn’t like the idea but sometimes during the day Jack took a walk to the corner store for some bread or pears or Doritos, Cool Ranch please  _ not _ that Nacho Cheese crap. She was a familiar and unwelcome face to the mid-afternoon cashier, who traded surly looks with her for daring to interrupt him texting.

She was in the freezer aisle when she noticed the boy examining the pints of Ben&Jerry’s like they held the secrets of the universe, a very pretty boy with a bruise at his collar and gold in his hair–

“Gavin,” she whispered without thinking, and like a hare when the fox is coming his ears pricked up and he jumped, a vice grip on the ice cream.

_ “Jack,”  _ he breathed, and ran at her. She flinched, braced for the impact, wondered how she could slide the knife from her boot–

He threw his arms around her, ice cream cold against her back, shedding flakes of gold. “Oh, I missed you,” he said, and Jack could say nothing. “I thought you were dead, Geoff said–”

“If you tell him otherwise you’ll get a lot worse than burning gold on your face. I’ll melt all that gold and pour it down your throat, I swear I will.” She didn’t hug him back but she didn’t want to follow through on her threats, either. Gavin was fifteen or sixteen when she met him, a skinny little bird with peeping laughter and long eyelashes. She had no motherly instincts, hated kids, had killed every plant she’d ever owned, but she also had no siblings and Gavin had loved her once, not the biting complication from Geoff or Ryan but sweet and simple.

Finally he let her go and she shivered at the cold water dripping down her spine. “I missed you,” he said. “I missed you.”

She refused to say it back but it was hard. “Does Michael know you’re fucking somebody else?”

Gavin’s eyes shot open wide and he clapped a hand to his bruise. “Why would he–”

“Michael can’t stand to look at you, I hear, and Geoff doesn’t leave bruises, he leaves scars. So who? Ryan? Jeremy?”

His eyes flashed like the gold that lined them. “You don’t know Jeremy.”

“No, I don’t. I know Michael, though, and he’s  _ possessive _ . Wants you all to himself.”

“He took a  _ wife!” _

“Yeah,” said Jack, whose soft spot for their Boy did not extend to the Devil. “He’s a bastard. Still won’t let anyone touch you but him.”

“I’d die alone.”

“I imagine you would.”

Gavin looked mournfully down at his ice cream. “I won’t tell Geoff,” he said, “if you don’t tell Michael.”

“Deal,” she said immediately, told herself to let Ryan know so he could keep an eye out.

“D’you know,” said Gavin, “if he said he’d rather kill me than let me get away with an affair… I think I’d let him.”

“Yeah,” said Jack, thinking about October. “I used to think that too.”

***

It is midnight, and the flickering neon of Los Santos before last call suits Geoff better than stained glass or sunlight ever could. He re-reads his heist plans, and wonders who to let die.

It is 1am, and the flickering bulb in the town clerk’s overnight office throws shadows into Michael’s impatient face. He looks for a death certificate, and finds nothing.

It is 2am, and the flicker of moonlight on a silver knife is the only light Gavin has to work by. He thinks gold might run through his veins, and skims the knife across his thighs to find out.

It is 3am, and the flick of a match against the striker brings to life candles for Jack to read her maps by. She decides her cut of the heist will go to a new tattoo; the flame on her hip needs covering up.

It is 4am, and the flickering light on Jeremy’s phone is sporadic, just enough to let him sneak out quietly. He doesn’t know what Matt would say if he woke up, but he doesn’t want him to wake up.

It is 5am, and the flickering lighter in Joel’s hand kindles his pipe and fills his kitchen with sweet smoke. He texts an address to an untraceable number, and smiles.

It is 6am, and the flickering streetlight makes intermittent gold puddles for Ryan to jog through. He sees a woman ahead and keeps his claws sheathed, but remembers her address for later.

It is 7am, and the flickering light on the coffee pot tells Miles he has to wait a little longer. He folds his paper to read the cover story: a picture of his own desecrated apartment and the headline FAHC IS BACK.


	11. Beautiful/Broken

As far as the law was concerned, the silent alarm that came from the Pacific Bank just past midnight was a false one. Gavin had told Miles about the planned heist, mumbled it between the hickeys he was leaving on his hipbone, and so when Miles confidently declared it a false alarm, no one questioned him.

The 911 call in the morning, however, he deigned to investigate. Did it himself, even. Geoff’s crew was not a sloppy one but if a cigarette butt or scrap of gold leaf got left behind, he wanted to take care of it before some well-meaning do-gooder like Shawcross could.

It would be a quiet investigation, he figured. He’d seen dozens of marks after the Crew was done with them. Rarely left bodies but those were usually execution style, a .500 between the eyes or through the heart. Chances were some panicky new employee clocked in to see the safes open and got spooked.

Cameras were disabled, he should’ve figured; they used to never bother but Gavin said they’d scooped local gym rat Jeremy Dooley, which meant his other half, hacker Matt Bragg, wouldn’t be far behind. That was what made Geoff’s crew dangerous; they stayed the course until they were at the edge of the cliff and then, when stagnation threatened to make them irrelevant, they veered into wholly new territory. It was chaos theory in action. Geoff had either taken a new interest in theoretical mathematics or really liked  _ Jurassic Park. _ Miles would hedge his bet on the latter.

“Looks fine from the outside,” Miles said over the radio back to the station. “No fire, no broken windows, door’s still on its hinges.”

_ “Copy,” _ said Marquis.  _ “Should I start the paperwork?” _

“Love your attitude. Go ahead, I’ll give you the details as I get them. Copy?”

_ “Over and out, sir.” _ What a good kid. Miles liked anyone who’d call him  _ sir. _ He clipped his radio back on his belt and ducked around the yellow tape to enter the atrium.

He’d expected no evidence, and he found no evidence. He’d expected dead night guards, and he found dead night guards. But he’d expected a clean, well-practiced execution, and what he found was butchery.

One guard, according to the EMT, had had every joint in his arms and legs, shoulder to fingertip and hip to toe, dislocated. When they tried to move him, he rattled around like a marionette with every limb at a different unnatural angle, and Blaine gagged. “How do you even  _ do _ that?” he asked.

“There are conditions that cause joint hypermobility,” said the EMT, trying to keep the guard’s limbs facing the right direction on the stretcher. “Ehlers-Danlos is one. Marfans is another.”

Miles knew they’d test for those and any other condition that caused joint elasticity, desperate to find a medical explanation for the skin-crawling sight. He also knew every test would be negative. Geoff’s Vagabond wouldn’t have cracked the guard open if it was  _ easy. _

“I’m gonna regret asking,” he said, “but there are usually two night guards, aren’t there?”

“Yep,” said Blaine. “Grey is… scraping him off the wall down by the vault.”

Miles swallowed the bile in his throat. “What happened to him?”

“You know the phrase ‘hacked to ribbons’?” He nodded. “It’s not a metaphor.”

Oh, Miles regretted that second cup of coffee. “Brutal.”

“Yeah,” said Blaine. “Hope those blowjobs were worth it.”

***

Ryan could hear Geoff screaming from the elevator. Couldn’t make out a word of it. Didn’t care. The thunderous  _ fury _ radiating from the penthouse was so goddamn delicious he closed his eyes for a second to savor it. Uncouth, maybe, but nothing got Ryan off like professional cockblocking.

_ “Which one of you,” _ Geoff was demanding of Michael and Gavin. “Had to be one of you!”

“Did it now,” said Michael. His fever-rage hadn’t  _ cooled, _ precisely, but it was clearly down to a hard simmer.

“You don’t want to be here, so now you’re gonna sabotage me?”

“Despite what you tell yourself, I’m not a fucking idiot. You had me by the balls when you threatened my family. Gavin told me  _ one job _ and I could go home. Why would I want to be here longer than I have to?”

“If you believed him,” said Ryan, feigning surprise, “Gavin must be more charismatic than I thought.”

Michael’s glare was scalding but Ryan never burned. “I never believed him,” he said. “But I want to go  _ home.” _

Ryan had gone to medical school in Boston. It was a beautiful city, rich with history and culture, a city of brick and iron and lanterns. It was no place for the chrome-and-neon savagery of Michael Jones.

“Gavin,” said Geoff. Ryan had  _ no _ idea what he’d been drinking but his tie was crooked, his sleeve frayed, and his shirt stained. Geoff never slurred his consonants but alcohol lengthened his vowels, turning the name into the elongated  _ Gaaaavin. _

“You can’t think I would,” Gavin snapped. “I’ve been at your side for how long? You think I’d sell your heist plan to, what, some rival crew?  _ Why?” _

“How the fuck would I know? Am I supposed to trust a whore?”

“I am what you  _ order _ me to be! I don’t spread my legs for every–”

_ “I ordered you to get on your knees for Miles Luna! _ So where’d those  _ fucking _ hickeys come from?”

Gavin reeled a little and Ryan wished to God he could film this. Jack had told him about meeting Gavin, about Gavin giving it up for Jeremy, who currently sat silent in the corner with an admirable poker face. Ryan wasn’t sure how or if he’d use that blackmail yet but the possibilities were endless. Maybe he’d just stir the pot and tell Michael. For someone who claimed not to care, his jaw was clenched like a bear trap.

It said something about Geoff that he never rounded on Ryan or Jeremy. Any other crew leader, including Joel or Burnie or any of Geoff’s  _ generation, _ would be completely secure in the surrogate-son and the blackmail victim, and would be suspicious of the lone wolf and the fresh blood. It likely never even occurred to Geoff to worry about Ryan or Jeremy; in his eye, friends were more likely to sell you out than enemies. How very, very telling.

“Just some guy,” said Gavin softly. “No one.”

“No one,” Geoff repeated. “You’d better not be fucking with me. You know what I’ll do to you.”

Gavin shrank back, not with Jack’s practiced obedience but with the low-set fury of a dog who is tired of being kicked. Geoff evidently didn’t notice. More and more Ryan wondered how Geoff got to so lofty a position as this, and he pulled out his phone.

_ To: Michael Jones. Gavin’s mystery man is sitting awfully quiet, isn’t he? _

Michael snuck a peek at his phone and glowered, shot a lightning-glance at Jeremy.

Oh, Ryan was going to enjoy telling Jack about this.

***

As soon as Geoff was sick of the inquisition, Gavin bolted to the bathroom and locked himself in and Michael asked Jeremy very tersely if they could have a word outside. They were dead silent in the elevator and it was only when they stepped foot in the lobby that Jeremy spoke.

“I have no goddamn clue about any of this heist shit,” he said. “So someone else decided to hit up the same bank, there’s not a ton of high-profile places to hit around here, and the timing I’m sure was just–”

“I don’t give a fuck about the  _ heist,” _ said Michael. When they were outside he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and flicked his lighter with practiced ease, took a deep lungful of smoke, breathed it out slow. “If you touch Gavin again, I’ll break your hand. Do it again and I’ll remove your hand.”

Oh,  _ yes, _ that was more like it. He had no idea how Michael found out and really, really didn’t care. It was ugly but he liked holding this over him. “He begged,” said Jeremy. “Wasn’t my idea. He called me up to Chilead, that was your place, right? Right in the back of my car.”

Michael pulled the cigarette away from his teeth so he could grit them. “Watch it. He’s married.”

Jeremy laughed aloud. “You can’t stand to look at him, but no one else can have him?”

“You think you know him–”

“I don’t want to know him–”

“And maybe you like him–”

“I really don’t–”

“But he takes that shit seriously,” he finished. His neck was red. “He’s gonna  _ hate _ you for making him cheat.”

Jeremy had never met a hypocrite quite like Michael Jones. “I don’t want him,” he said, didn’t even stop to think if anything he was saying was true as long as it caused a wound. “Never did, never will. I get the feeling that things are about to get rough. All I wanted was to know that if we’d done this heist, and if he’d died, the last person who kissed him or touched him would not have been you.”

Michael bared his teeth. “Get the fuck away from me before I make good on the hand-breaking,” he spat. “I’ll pull your teeth out one by one.”

“I beat your ass last time we fought and I’ll do it again. Try me.”

“Don’t you have a boyfriend you should be disappointing right about now?”

Now that made him pause. It was not the first time someone thought he and Matt were an item but usually the assumption made him laugh. He did not like that Michael knew about Matt, that he knew Matt was Jeremy’s weak point. “He’s not my…”

“Get the fuck away,” he said again, and pulled his phone out. “I’m gonna call my  _ wife.” _


	12. First Aulis, Then Pelusium

As far as the law was concerned, the public pool on 42nd Street was closed, condemned by the board of public health when someone was found floating dead in it. That alone wouldn’t usually be enough– someone was found floating dead in it a few times a year– but the body was infected with cholera, a relic of a recent trip to Yemen. After that the police thought it best to declare it the possible ground zero of a public health crisis and had it drained. Didn’t stop it being used as the meeting place of choice for illicit deals, though.

Nothing good ever came with a text from a blocked number.

_ [BLOCKED]: do you still play poker, Geoffrey? _

_ Geoff: who the fuck is this _

_ [BLOCKED]: you used to have this awful strategy. You’d throw away paying hearts on the chance you’d get a better hand. Either you got that better hand or you took those paying hearts out of play. _

_ [BLOCKED]: that was always your style. Break the toy so no one else can play with it. _

_ Geoff: who the FUCK is this _

_ [BLOCKED]: time to stop throwing out the Queen, Geoff. That momentary thrill distracts you from the big picture. The Devil’s in the details. _

_Geoff: Joel?_ **(!)** **message could not be delivered.**

**ERROR: this number can no longer receive messages.**

Geoff dropped his empty glass, ignoring how it cracked when it hit the floor, and stumbled to the kitchen to find the Magnum he kept stashed under the silverware drawer. Wasn’t that just like Michael? To lie to his face about sabotaging him? Maybe he had nothing to do with the aborted heist, and that was a big  _ maybe, _ but hiding Jack was flat disrespect of the type he was not accustomed to tolerating. Absolutely embarrassing that  _ Ryan, _ who was damn near magic in how well he knew this city, couldn’t get there before Michael.

Well, no matter. He sent a text to Michael telling him to meet him at the pool, and things would be settled after that.

***

Nothing good ever came with a call from a blocked number.

_ Missed call + voicemail. [BLOCKED] _

Jeremy sighed and tapped the voicemail notification, held the phone to his ear to listen. The message was only six seconds, Gavin’s voice:  _ “you know who it is. Call.” _

“Voicemail?” Matt asked from across the room, not looking up from his computer. There was a strained quality to his voice and Jeremy couldn’t help but distantly wonder when they started keeping secrets from each other, secrets that didn’t even matter except that they used to share everything. “From who?”

“Some blocked number,” he said, to teeter on the edge of honesty. “Six seconds of dead air, guess it was a mistake.”

“Mistake,” Matt repeated softly. “I bet.”

Once, three days ago even, Matt’s disappointment and resignation in the face of a blatant lie would make him squirm with the kind of guilt that only came from a born-and-raised Catholic, that empty pit deep in his stomach that threatened to consume him. But now… he couldn’t even say what in three days had changed, but oh, that guilt was irritation in its entirety now. Maybe the matter-of-fact indignation in Michael’s presumptuous lecture outside Geoff’s apartment had rubbed off on him. After all, Michael was willing to threaten an ally to protect an ex he could not stand to look at. What right did Matt have to be disappointed or resigned when he didn’t have the courage to ask Jeremy where he went?

That was almost certainly unfair, that he was angry about not being confronted for his own bad behavior when everything would be fixed by dropping the bad behavior. Hypocritical, maybe. Definitely obnoxious. Maybe in another three days time that would really eat at him, but probably not.

Jeremy got up and rolled his shoulders to make his spine crack. “I’m taking a walk to the corner store. Need anything?”

Trick question. Matt was almost out of toothpaste and had been out of Reese’s Pieces for a day and a half, he absolutely needed things, but he said “no” and Jeremy ground his teeth. “If you say so.”

The minute he was outside he dialed the number right back. “You got my roommate pissed at me,” he said, instead of  _ hello. _

_ “That sounds like your problem,” _ said Gavin, not sounding apologetic in the slightest.  _ “Michael knows about us.” _

_ There is no us, _ he considered saying before rejecting it on the grounds that it was too rude even for this recent black mood. “Bummer.”

_ “Did you tell him?” _

“Why would I tell him?”

_ “Pretty clear you don’t like him. Did you fuck me just to stick it in his face?” _

Truth be told, Jeremy had enjoyed that night. The view was beautiful and Gavin knew how to play a man and the shimmer of gold dust in his back seat still made him smile. But it was only supposed to  _ be _ one night, and a secret at that, and Michael was a snitch and Matt was pissy and the last thing Jeremy wanted was someone else lecturing him.

“Yeah,” he said, kicking at a crack in the sidewalk. “Yeah, I did. I fucked you just so I could tell him I did it. He wasn’t even surprised, y’know? Guess he knows what you are.”

_ “And what am I?” _

“Just what Geoff made you.”

He heard Gavin make a noise, almost a growl.  _ “And Geoff told me you were sweet.” _

Sweet. Right. Jeremy had been coarse and awkward his entire life; turns out adding a gun to that equation does not a good friend make. “Sorry to be such a disappointment, then.” Would he be worse than Michael Jones soon? Nastier, uglier, pettier? Or would he sink to that level and stagnate? Did he have a choice? “What are you gonna do about it? You gonna punch me or are you gonna let me fuck you again?”

Another growl.  _ “The 42nd Street pool in half an hour.” _

“The fucking pool? You trying to kill me?”

_ “Look at it this way,” _ said Gavin.  _ “If cholera kills you, it won’t have to be Michael.” _ He hung up without letting Jeremy say anything else, so he swore under his breath and stuffed his phone back in his pocket. He was half a dozen long blocks from 42nd Street, it would take him about half an hour to walk there.

So he set off, and it didn’t even occur to him to tell Matt he was leaving.

***

Nothing good ever came with a knock to a locked door.

Ryan was at work. As far as the local hospitals knew, he was in high demand, constantly traveling out of state or out of the country, but when there were surgeries they needed taken care of quickly and very, very well… they came calling. Occasionally Ryan would even answer. The pay was extraordinary and it was always fun to practice his scalpel work.

Jack did not go to work. Jack enjoyed heists when it came down to it, more so the planning than the execution; she had notebooks of plans that Geoff had insisted would never work, and she was starting to wonder if he was wrong about that. After all, she and Ryan robbed the  _ bank _ with just him on the inside and her on the outside, with no shots fired and no police presence to evade. Geoff couldn’t steal from the bank in Monopoly without three handguns and half a dozen lackeys.

So it was nice to sit in a comfortable armchair with an Irish coffee wearing an open Hawaiian shirt and boxer shorts, some interchangeable MTV reality show on low volume and two open notebooks on her lap. It was the perfect afternoon but for the pounding on the door.

“Jesus Christ, hold on,” she said, and set aside her notebooks. That cop Luna lived next door, never recognized Ryan without the mask, never recognized her with longer hair and no scowl, so he sometimes stopped over to ask a favor, to feed his cat for a night or borrow a cup of sugar or whatever. If it wasn’t him it was the retired judge across the hall who stole their mail so he had an excuse to talk to her when he returned it. Neither interaction was a welcome addition to her day but she steeled herself up to see either an apologetic smile or a leering one.

Imagine her surprise, seeing instead sharp gritted teeth and flashing dark eyes.

“Michael,” she said without meaning to, taking a step back. He followed immediately, slammed the door behind him.

“Nice place you got here,” he said, every muscle tense. “D’you think Geoff wants you back dead or alive?”

Funny, Ryan had asked her just that question two nights before. “What do you think?” she’d asked.

“Alive,” he’d said, so immediate and firm that she figured Geoff must’ve said something about it. She had to fight back the urge to ask. She should not care if Geoff thought about her, but his ring still sat in her dresser. She didn’t ask about Geoff but she did ask why he was so sure but all he said was “Pelusium.”

“I think he wants me,” she said now. “Don’t think he much cares how he gets me. You’re trading me for your wife, right?”

“Don’t you talk about my wife.”

“I guess she’s not really your wife. Pregnant, though, right? Is her name Jones too?”

_ “Don’t you talk about my wife!” _

Jack laughed. “Ryan was on the phone with her this morning. Last ultrasound, the one where she found out it was a boy? Revealed a cleft lip. Gotta fix that with surgery. Gonna wanna call in a really good surgeon for that. I think she and Ryan would get along, don’t–”

Michael was faster than she remembered, grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the closed door. She almost hope it would leave a bruise; Ryan would snap his neck for it. “One more word,” he hissed. He was flushed up to his ears, breathing hard, sweating. He looked like shit and smelled like ammonia, and she’d bet all thirty-seven cents in her savings account that his sweet little wife out in New England didn’t know what he smoked other than tobacco, if she even knew about that. “Don’t you say one more word.”

“Can I say more than one word?”

He tightened his grip on her throat. “I’m taking you to him right fucking now. Gave me a public meeting place and everything. You know what he’s gonna do when he gets a hand on you?”

She stared into Michael’s eyes, dark as pitch. Maybe they should’ve been lifeless eyes, cold and blank like a shark’s, but they were wild and feverish and burning just like the rest of him. Did he even know he was dead until this city brought him back to life? “Yeah,” she said. “He’s gonna die.”

***

Nothing good  _ ever _ came with a text from a blocked number.

Matt Bragg wouldn’t have answered the phone if they’d called but he did read messages. Didn’t usually respond, but read them. He wasn’t getting any work done, anyway. Jeremy should have been back half an hour ago.

_ [BLOCKED]: what’s worse news: Jeremy has a secret job, Jeremy has a secret boyfriend, or Jeremy is about to be at ground zero of a crime scene? _

_ Matt: what? None. Who is this? _

_ [BLOCKED]: boy do I have bad news for you _

“What the fuck,” he said aloud, but before he could text back, something outside the window, across the city, caught his attention: one flare, fourteen gunshots, and one long scream.


	13. Bound Together, As the Poets Say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has been a fun ride! I hope y'all enjoyed reading this even half as much as I liked writing it. Title of the fic and the last chapter come from this quote: "Some souls are bound together, as the poets say. The two of you are, in truth, but one: one heart, one spirit, one intrinsic soul. It is not that you are fated to be with him, but rather fate has not the audacity to keep you apart." I'm also happy to explain any of my pretentious metaphors/allusions/what have you.

As far as the law was concerned, no one died at the condemned pool that night.

Something had clearly happened; there were eight pints of blood puddled in the cracks of the uneven concrete, so thick it was still sticky and wet two days later. The police tried to test for DNA but the blood was from multiple sources and not one of them was in the system. Some eyewitnesses swore everyone involved got up and walked away, others were sure there were body bags, and the LSPD all agreed that some of them were lying but had nothing to lean on either way. No bodies meant no charges were ever made and no autopsy was ever performed. It would be listed as a cold case but no file was ever opened.

That was as far as the law was concerned, though. Among the people of Los Santos, there might be disagreements about how or why or when, but they were crystal clear on one thing:

The Kingpin was dead.

***

_ How did he do it? _

_ He’s the Jersey Devil. Burned him to ashes. _

Michael agreed to meet Gavin at the top of Mount Chilead.

“You let Jeremy fuck you,” he said, staring out at the sunrise. He sat on the hood of his car and Gavin leaned moodily against the railing. “You took him  _ here _ and you gave it up for him. How does he like it? Did he lay you down under the stars? Or did he bend you over the hood of his car and tell you to throw it back?”

“Don’t be crass,” Gavin said, baring his teeth. He looked every inch the pretty sparkling star he’d always been but there was something hollow about his eyes. Maybe it was the grief, but maybe the freedom let him come into his own, tarnished and tired. “It was just the once. You sired  _ children.” _

_ “Sired? _ I’m not a stud horse. You can bet I fucked her a lot more than just to have–”

“I don’t want to hear it!”

“I can’t wait to leave this fucking place,” he said, drawing a knee up. “Soon as I figure out how to keep the rest of you motherfuckers in line and away in my family.”

“Wonder if your daughter will be a whore like you,” said Gavin, and Michael pulled his handgun from the inside of his jacket and emptied the magazine at Gavin’s feet. “Hey!”

“Next time I’ll hit you,” he warned, and dropped the gun, slid off the hood. Gavin turned toward him, matched his steps, only stopped when they were a foot apart.

“You think you can kick me out of your life? Like I don’t know you. Even if you run, Ryan knows your woman’s phone number and Jeremy would be happy to beat the hell out of you again.”

Michael grabbed the front of Gavin’s shirt and yanked him closer. “And if I kill you right here?”

“I’d let you,” Gavin said, and Michael crushed their mouths together.

_ Just like him, I heard… wants to be king of the wasteland. _

***

_ How did he do it? _

_ He’s the Golden Boy. Poisoned him– gold’s toxic when you eat it. _

Gavin stood under the harsh white light of his bathroom and studied his reflection. Every one of his limbs was bruised, and his chest and neck besides, not even counting the fingernail gouges down the ridge of his spine. Some parts hurt worse than others, but a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.

(A bastard does, though. A bastard scribbles all the salacious details on club toilet stalls.)

He needed to shave. He needed to sleep. His scars cut across his cheeks angry and red and they would never, never heal.

Ryan had told him once, in that way he had like every word had six secret meanings, that the Japanese fixed broken pots with gold, to show that the thing was more beautiful for having been broken. He’d never have enough gold leaf in the world to completely fill in  _ every _ scar, but he could start somewhere.

He sighed, carefully carved out thin slices of the leaf, and began applying it to his burns. If he couldn’t heal them, he might as well fucking gild them.

_ Just like him, I heard… best friend is a mirror. _

***

_ How did he do it? _

_ He’s the Vagabond. Smashed his ribs and tore out his heart. _

Ryan did not eat sushi.

He didn’t eat his steaks rare, either. Couldn’t abide when it was cold in the middle or dripping blood. Refused to touch any raw meat out of a butcher’s window.

But that was steak.

And his work and his pleasure came to grips in a dirty back alley just three blocks from the police station, and he only allowed Miles Luna to call him by his real name once before he slit his throat. Luna didn’t deserve to suffer too much. Probably didn’t deserve to be found by his coworkers face-down in filthy water with his spine flayed open and his lungs missing, either, but Ryan was willing to concede some fault there.

He should share with Luna’s cat. Little bastard probably got a taste for it after Demarais.

Luna made a good target, all else being equal. Geoff was the leader of the most dangerous gang in the city; death of the new chief of police made a lovely counterpoint. And of course Geoff forbade him from playing with Luna or any of his friends; Ryan wasn’t usually driven by vindictiveness but it burnt scalding in his gut now. He was  _ never _ Geoff’s lapdog but now he was no one’s  _ anything. _

He packed Luna’s lungs in the cooler marked BIOHAZARD, HUMAN ORGANS FOR TRANSPLANT, traded his leather jacket and mask for scrubs, and left the Vagabond in the alley while Dr. Haywood came out to play.

_ Just like him, I heard… can’t let go of a grudge. _

***

_ How did she do it? _

_ She was his lover. Stabbed him right in the back. _

Without a chaperone, drunk Jack was the best friend of every bartender in Los Santos. She tipped three hundred percent, she threw out unruly customers, she refused to let anyone play “Piano Man” on the jukebox more than once a night, and she usually had the good grace not to bring her gun.

Didn’t hurt that she could throw back shots with the best of them, either.

The bartender was cute, had an accent, was only a couple inches shorter than Jack. She smiled when Jack tipped a hundred on a twenty dollar tab, so Jack bought one more drink and left another hundred.

“Looks like you’re having a good time,” said some guy to her left, a little too loud to be heard over the music. Cute, in a pretty-boy kinda way. Aggressively not her type. “Wanna kick it up a notch?” He held up a plastic baggie with a few little pills inside, and she squinted at him.

“Aren’t you a cop? Aaron something?”

“Only during the day. I’ll take it first, if you want.” He picked two pills out of the bag and swallowed them dry, then tossed back a shot of tequila just to show off.

“What are they?”

“MDMA. Unless I’m lying.” His smile was wolfish, like it was gonna scare her. “Bet you’ll get fucked up before me.”

“You’re on,” she said, and waved over two more shots.

_ Just like him, I heard… will shoot, snort, or smoke anything. _

***

_ How did he do it? _

_ He’s the new blood. Beat the old blood right out of him. _

“You didn’t tell me,” said Matt softly. He was at his desk and Jeremy was on the couch, scrolling idly through his phone.

“What?”

“You didn’t  _ tell me,” _ said Matt. “About anything! About the guy you were seeing, about Geoff Ramsey–”

“Oh, God, Matt, don’t.”

“I’m not your… mother, I don’t  _ care, _ really, just… wish you told me.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “It’s not your business, Matt. I didn’t hurt anyone.”

_ “Yet. _ They don’t even know what happened to him!” Jeremy said nothing and would not look at Matt, and Matt felt bile at the back of his throat. “Do...  _ you _ know what hap–”

“Leave it.” Jeremy got up and moved towards his room and Matt stumbled to his feet, heart pounding. “I mean it, Matt.”

“It’s not nothing, Jeremy! If you hurt someone, if you’re friendly with people who are hurting other people–”

Jeremy shoved his phone in his pocket and turned, pointing at Matt with a kind of aggression he used to reserve only for frustrating television shows.  _ “Not your business!  _ You’re not my boyfriend, you’re not my jailer. Don’t pry.”

“Don’t come back,” said Matt, clenched his hand to hide their shaking. He and Jeremy had been friends for years and never fought. “You can’t go out and do… do shit like that… and then come back here!”

“Fine.” Jeremy pulled his key ring out of his pocket and detached one, tossed it to Matt, who missed the catch. It clattered to the floor instead. “You want me out of here? I’m out of here.”

Matt looked down at the key but didn’t move to pick it up. “I’m gonna miss you, Jeremy.”

Jeremy sighed, turned back to his room. “Grow up, Matt.”

_ Just like him, I heard… can’t stand to be around anyone for long. _

***

_ How’d he do it? _

_ Suicide. Blew his brains out. Guy like that, nothin’ to live for. _

Sometimes people poured one out in the ocean for the Kingpin. They were sure his body was dumped out there somewhere, to be picked apart by crabs and worn down by salt. Sometimes bones would wash up on shore, but no one could prove they were his. They always seemed to disappear before any testing could be done.

Sometimes people left bullet casings in the ditch beside the Del Perro Freeway. They were sure his body was dumped there somewhere, to be picked apart by foxes and worn down by rain. Sometimes bones would wash up on the shoulders of the road, but no one could prove they were his. They always seemed to disappear before any testing could be done.

Sometimes people left cigar butts behind Society. They were sure his body was dumped in the alleys somewhere, to be picked apart by raccoons and worn down by traffic. Sometimes bones would…

_ Killed himself so no one else got the satisfaction. Ain’t that just like him? _

***

Jeremy sits on top of the E in the VINEWOOD sign, a lit cigarette that he isn’t smoking between two of his fingers. His leg swings in the open air and he shivers.

Jack snorts a line as thick as her finger because a man she will never see again told her she should. When she straightens up her nose is bleeding and she wipes it on the back of her hand.

Ryan waits for a woman who should be returning from a jog soon. He has eight sizes of scalpels in his jacket pocket and plans to use them. He is not even hungry.

Gavin knows gold doesn’t flow through his veins but he plays with his knife anyway. His gold-painted scars shine like tears when he moves, but it’s been years since he last cried.

Michael’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he sees Lindsay’s name flash. He stares at it for five long seconds before he hits ‘ignore.’

**Author's Note:**

> Consider leaving a comment with any thoughts!


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